


Crushed

by TerrusDacktellus



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Spuffy, but only by implication, whoa what is this i'm not writing comic fic??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:13:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5018818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerrusDacktellus/pseuds/TerrusDacktellus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘School Hard’ Spike argues with the Spike from ‘Crush’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crushed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on Tumblr. Makes very little sense but shhhh the logic is not important.

Crisp, fresh night, stars out, lots of pretty, young things tottering around in high heels like overdressed appetisers — bloody perfect night to kill a slayer. Spike stepped outside the factory and contemplated having a fag to prolong the truly delicious anticipation but as usual, his impatience won out.The lackeys had run ahead, over eager like a bunch of puppies. Slayer’d decimate ‘em. That’d be fun to watch for starters. He let out a whoop and started off down the street. 

“I wouldn’t bother.” 

There was a dark figure leaning against the factory wall, wrapped in a long, black coat like some nancy phantom of the opera rip off. His face was half hidden behind his hands, cupped around the end of a cigarette as he lit it. The gesture was both weirdly familiar and uncomfortably foreign at the same time. 

“Y’wot, mate?”

The stranger shoved off the wall, huffing out a cloud of smoke like it’d offended him and Spike realised where the sense of déjà vu crawling all over his skin had come from. It was his bloody doppelgänger, and every movement was an uncanny imitation of his own. 

“I said—” fucking hell, even the voice was exactly his own, although it sounded strangely hoarse and husky “—don’t fuckin’ bother.”

The apparition swayed towards him, looking to be a bit drunk. Spike eyes tracked over what had to be his own face — even with so long without mirrors, he recognised it from photos: hollow cheeks, long nose, bleached hair. It was all there, although he looked a bit redder around the eyes than was normal. It lurched towards him and Spike lashed out instinctively, connecting with a solid crunch — not a ghost or an illusion then. That just left a coupla hundred varieties of demon capable of shape shifting. He set about finding out exactly which one it was using his favourite investigative technique, namely, beating on it until it told him what he wanted to know.

Apparently, it was a night for surprises — doppel-Spike blocked his second blow easily, punched him in the ribs and kneed him solidly in the balls. Spike dropped like a stone, wheezing pointlessly and clutching himself. The imposter hauled him up by the scruff of the neck and blocked Spike’s half-hearted attempt to hamstring him with his teeth with a surprising amount of coordination for someone so obviously inebriated. It was, Spike realised with a sickening feeling that was in part due to the waves of pain radiating from his crushed testicles, as though he knew his attacks in advance.

“Knock it off, y’wretched li’l’ nurk.” Doppel-Spike yanked him to his feet, still half doubled over in pain. “An’ listen up, ‘cause this spell I nicked gives me fairly limited time. ‘m your future self.” 

Spike choked out a laugh. “My bollocks you are.”

“‘m fairly intimately acquainted with ‘em, as it happens. Left one’s bigger.” Spike sputtered. “Are we done with proving my identity part? Want me to go on about Cecily Addams and all that miserable claptrap we wrote for her? What was it again, tis grown a bulge in’t?”

The ache in his balls was finally beginning to ease and Spike straightened up a bit and knocked his twin’s hand off his shoulder.

“Alright, say you are my bloody future self — and I’m the queen of Sheba, incidentally, but sod it, say you are. What’s it take for you to fuck off back to the year bloody two thousand or what have you?” 

Future Spike sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. It finally struck Spike that he looked like he’d been crying. 

“Came to warn you, di’n’ I? This bloody slayer — it’s not worth it. Cut an’ run, my son. Take Dru, get in the car, and leave this shit stain of a town in the dust.”

“Run?” Spike stared at him, incredulous. “Is this some sort of fuckin’ joke? This slayer is mine. She might as well have property of W. the Bloody, Esq. stamped on her arse.”

Future Spike fell back against the wall with a groan. Was he really this much of a drama queen? Nah. Couldn’t be. 

“You’ve seen her already,” he said in a hollow voice.

Spike shrugged, increasingly tempted to to have another go at kicking the fucker’s ass, but he wanted to conserve his energy. The slayer was waiting for him and he could nearly taste her blood in his mouth.

“‘Course I’ve seen ‘er already,” he said. “What’s it to you?” 

“I’m too late then,” his future self mumbled. Spike ran out of patience — he hadn’t had much to begin with anyway — grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him up against the wall.

“Start making sense,” he growled. “Or ‘m gonna rip your heart out and eat it in front of you.” 

“Too late, mate. ’S’already gone.” Future-Spike laughed bleakly. Spike let go of him in disgust. This wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him. 

“Look, whatever you are, I’d stay and kill you,” he said. “But I’ve got a rather pressin’ engagement with a lady.” 

He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned to go. “She’s not yours.” The creature’s voice sounded haunted. “She’ll never be yours.” 

Spike laughed. “That a challenge?”

There was no answer. He glanced over his shoulder and then spun all the way round. There was no one there. It was gone and there was no sound of running feet, no hiding places, yet it had vanished all the same. Spike stood there, rattled and thought of going back to Dru, to ask what it all might mean. That couldn’t have been him, that snivelling wreck. The Big Bad’d die before letting anything reduce him like that. It had to be a trick of some kind. And who, he realised suddenly, stood to benefit from him getting psyched out and leaving town? Why, only the slayer, of course. Spike tipped back his head and laughed. She was running scared. They hadn’t even fought yet and he had the bitch on the ropes, that was the only explanation for a pathetic piece of witchery fuckery like this. He strode off in the direction of the school, the bounce returning to his step. Oh, he’d have her. She was his.


End file.
